


For the Love of (Money)

by SoManyJacks



Series: For the Love of (  ) [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Angst, Bad Wine, Fluff, M/M, Poverty, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoManyJacks/pseuds/SoManyJacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Tumblr prompt: Iron Bull catches Dorian in a lie about how much money he’s been surviving off at Skyhold, having been hiding his low funds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Love of (Money)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Loose pre-quel to Terrible Liar, before Dorian hooks up with anyone.~~ Decided this is gonna stand on own, so forget I ever said that. Mostly angst with a little fluff.

First time Bull notices it is in Redcliffe. They’re on their way back from the Hinterlands, and it’s a good place to stop and decompress for a night. Sleep in a real bed, do a little shopping, the kind of shit that makes you feel normal after spending weeks hacking through demons and rebel mages and Red Templars.

So they’re in the main square market. Cadash and Sera are already off somewhere, selling the valuables they’ve looted. Bull’s not much of a shopper, but Stitches’ birthday is coming up, and it might be nice to get him a little something. Maybe a new mortar and pestle? He decides to ask if Dorian will help him pick one out.

“Hey. ‘Vint,” Bull says, prodding Dorian in the shoulder with an elbow.

“Don’t touch me, and don’t call me ‘Vint,” Dorian sighs.

“Yeah, okay, you got it, ‘Vint,” Bull laughs, putting a hand on Dorian's shoulder and tugging him close.

Dorian squawks and tries to pull away from the embrace. One of his buckles gets caught on Bull’s wrist cuff, and it tears away from the fabric, leaving most of his chest exposed.

Dorian gasps. Anger flashes across his face, and Bull expects him to yell and raise a fuss. But he doesn’t. As quick as the anger appeared, it’s gone, and if the way Dorian's shoulders slump are anything to go by, resignation has taken its place.

It’s a surprising enough reaction that Bull’s taken aback. “Oh, shit. Sorry,” he mumbles.

Dorian's examining the fabric. “It’s fine. I can mend it.” His voice is kind of dull, none of the bluster Bull would expect.

Of course, neither would Bull expect Dorian to _mend_ anything. He’s the type to just buy a new tunic, not fix an old one. But maybe he doesn’t want to lower himself to wearing southern clothes. He’s nothing if not vain.

“Let me give you something for it,” Bull offers, reaching for his coin purse.

Dorian's jaw clenches as his eyes go to the pouch on Bull’s belt, heavy with coin. “That won’t be necessary.” He strides away before Bull can respond.

The next morning, the tunic is repaired with neat stitches. Dorian can’t bring himself to look at Bull.

***

The next time it happens, they’re back in Skyhold. It’s a good night in the Herald’s Rest, lots of laughing and talking and drinking. Dorian's there for once, and he’s flush with good humor, smiling easily, his eyes sparkling so much he’s almost earned his nickname.

Bull’s watching him closely. No hardship there, and it’s obvious Dorian knows he’s being watched. Hell, the glint in his eye says louder than anything that he’s liking it.

But Bull’s not watching Dorian ‘cause he’s hot. He’s watching Dorian drink. For all his talk of loving wine, he’s drinking Cabot’s cheapest ale, and he’s been nursing the tankard all night. Every time someone offers to grab him another round he makes a show of having a still having a half mug left, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Who’s in for Wicked Grace?” Varric calls out.

There’s a chorus of affirmatives. “Count me out, I’m afraid,” Dorian says. “Need to get to bed early. Being this handsome does require a lot of beauty rest.” Again, his smile doesn’t fit; he’s barely holding it together. He doesn’t want to leave. He drains his ale, for real this time, and rises.

“What about you, Tiny?”

“Nah,” Bull says expansively. “Might go try to rustle up a different kind of action, you know what I’m saying.”

There’s some laughter and in the midst, Dorian slips out. Bull goes upstairs and waits ten minutes. Then he heads out the side door and into the keep.

He’s not sure where he’s going, exactly. But he wanders the hallways of the living quarters until he finds what he’s looking for. Or technically, what he’s smelling for: the scent of embrium and beeswax and ink.

Bull stops outside a door that's not quite shut all the way. There’s a light spilling from around the edges, and it’s not candlelight, it’s mage light.

He gets as close to the door as he can and listens. He hears a half-full bottle being lifted and set down. Then a click and creak - maybe a box being unlocked and opened? A jingle, next, and the sound of a meager handful of coins dropping on to the wooden table. Then the sound of those coins sliding across the wood rhythmically.

He’s counting his money, Bull realizes. And there’s not a lot to count. Bull winces, thinking back to the Hinterlands. It was the first time they’d been in the field together. Cadash, of course, loots each body she fells, gathering any equipment or weapons might be of use. Sera is a magpie, going straight for small, shiny things that slip easily into pockets.

But Dorian, though, he didn't. He didn't loot much of anything, in fact. The only thing Bull saw him take was a bottle of wine from a bandit. Dorian had squatted over the pack, lifting the wine out and swiping at the label with his thumb. He’d sighed, one of those heavy ones that Bull was beginning to catalog, and then tucked it into his bag, looking around guiltily.

There’s no point in knocking. That’ll just give him time to hide, Bull knows. So he just pushes it open.

The room is neat and clean, at least. Dorian's armor is hanging from a stand in the corner, along with his staff, both gifts from the Inquisitor. Those two items are the only things demarcating this room from a prison cell. Aside from a storage chest, there’s a small wooden table and a simple kitchen chair. No fire in the fireplace, so it’s freezing. Shit, there’s not even a bed, just a bedroll.

Dorian's sitting at the table, clutching a half-empty bottle of wine and a small lockbox. “Kaffas, man, what are you doing here?”

Bull takes a deep breath, makes a point of looking around. “Damn, Dorian.” He just shakes his head.

For a second it looks like Dorian's going to come back at him with an insult or retort or _something._ But instead his cheeks flush and he avoids Bull’s eyes. “Whatever you’re going to say, just say it and get out.” He swigs from the bottle, staring into the middle distance.

Bull doesn’t say anything, not at first. He comes into the room all the way, shutting the door behind him. Takes a step closer and gently wrests the wine bottle from Dorian's hand. He reads the label. “That’s a good year, I heard.” He hands it back to Dorian.

Dorian's still not looking at him, but he grabs the bottle back possessively. “Wouldn’t think you know anything about it.”

“I get a case for Krem at Satinalia.” There’s only the one chair, so Bull sits on the chest.

“How very kind,” Dorian snips.

“I try,” Bull grins.

His attempt to lighten the mood falls flat. Dorian looks smaller than Bull’s ever seen him, all hunched over. It makes something in Bull’s stomach feel weird, seeing him so beaten down. “How much longer can you hold out?” Bull asks finally.

Dorian turns his head towards Bull without looking up. “As long as I need to. I won’t be a burden. Or a criminal.”

“Pretty sure looting from the people trying to kill you doesn’t count as theft.”

Dorian snorts and raises the bottle, weighing the remaining volume sadly. He downs the rest in one swallow. “No? Try telling that to the merchant. No one else has any difficulty selling their little trinkets, but when I tried to sell a jeweled brooch, oh _no,_ messere, we couldn’t _possibly_ deal in _stolen goods._ And it wasn’t even -” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“You’re selling your own crap?” Bull’s getting angry.

Opening the box, Dorian fishes out the small purse and bounces it in his palm. “Had to use a go-between. Only got half of what it was worth, and that was before my ‘friend’ took his ‘commission’.”

“Fuck, Dorian, this is just fucking wrong. You’re the best fucking mage we have, and you’re living worse than the laziest stablehand. You gotta say something.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Complain. Raise a fuss. That's exactly what I need to do.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about. People _like_ you, Bull. They don’t pray for their souls when you pass in the corridor, making the sign against the evil eye. They aren’t so scared that they refuse to bring you wood for the fire or a bucket of clean water in the morning. They don’t follow you at night, or spit on you, or talk loudly about how you should be strung up from Cullen's tower. If I complain, if I become the spoiled brat who can’t put the Inquisition above his own needs, how much worse will it get?”

“Yeah, but - fuck, Dorian, how you gonna make it back to Tevinter when it’s all over?” Bull’s mind is reeling, trying to take in everything Dorian's said.

Laughing low in his throat, Dorian finally looks at him. “You _really_ think I’m going to survive this, Bull?”

Bull’s not the kind of guy to fall in love. Even still, something happens when he sees how big of a sacrifice Dorian's willing to make; in his head and chest and gut and groin, something shifts and falls into place, and maybe he feel a little something more for Dorian, a deeper kind of respect.

Bull hauls himself to his feet. He knows Dorian won’t let him help. Oh, no question, Bull’s gonna take care of it, at least getting the guy proper furniture and fuel and a fair shot at the merchants, but he can do it on the sly, not give the mage a chance to object. He holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Back to my room. You’re running dry. I got wine, and fire -- even have two chairs.” Bull beckons his empty hand.

“Lap of luxury.” Dorian's starting to look a little less beat down, relieved that Bull’s not pressing him. “What kind of wine?”

“Nevarran.”

“Pssh, might as well drink my own piss.” Dorian takes Bull’s hand and stands.

“Yeah well that’d mean you need a pot to piss in, so you’re still better off.” Bull grins, not letting go of Dorian's hand. It feels good. He knows Dorian's gonna fight him on this later. But Bull knows he’s gonna win. He always wins.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] For the Love of (Money)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970948) by [BabelGhoti (TheHandmadeTale)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHandmadeTale/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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